The art of telling




In our family we held each day

in a slack semiloop

the stories always felt drunken

the art of telling like mapping

a thousand-foot ridge


the blue steal lifting me up

our hands palming stars


It’s hard to imagine

a day after tomorrow

it’s hard to remember

the silk-wrapped shimmer

of being young


the way I wanted four aces

without quite saying so


I walk to the creek

my father lifting me up

to wade across

our heads turned like street fighters

fish splash parting time


morning and evening spread and slip

when I look I see half of myself

swimming downstream






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